JB4 JAMES BOND 007: The First
by Dan Bivens
Summary: James Bond is about to meet up with two legendary figures from MI6's many years of secret agent adventures. Question is would 007 be able to take in such a shocking situation, not to mention teaming up with this individual to battle this old SPECTRE villian.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

"...so early in the day"

A low beeping interrupts the slumber of Napoleon Solo, man from U.N.C.L.E.: **U**nited **N**etwork **C**ommand for **L**aw **E**nforcement...

"Hm. What?" a half-asleep Napoleon mumbles, before reaching over, to his night table, and picking up what looks like an inocuous-looking ink pen. Albeit a pricy one.

Picking it up, Napoleon utilized very specific hand movements that quickly transformed the pricy ink pen into a unique to U.N.C.L.E. communications device.

"Yes, Napoleon Solo here."

"It's Illya," came the very familiar voice over the tiny-but-powerful speaker built into the powerful microphone that, moments ago, was the writing end of what appeared to be a pen. Illya Kuryakin was calling Napoleon Solo from his on apartment somewhere else in New York City. "Hate to wake you, old friend, but Mr. Waverly has just sent out the call for us. By contacting me. We've got to get down there as fast as we can."

"Did Mr. Waverly give any indication as to what might be wrong?" asked Napoleon as he swung his legs off the edge of the big bed to allow bare feet to feel caressed by plush carpeting. He was sans pajamas of any sort.

Even as Illya Kuryakin continued via the quickly converted communications device, held tightly 'twixt thumb and the first two fingers of his right hand, Napoleon Solo was at his closet, quickly fumbling, with his one free hand, through a collection of high-end suits, shirts, and ties.

"Only that T.H.R.U.S.H. was involved. So you know it has to be big," came the cool comment from the tiny speaker of Napoleon's communication pen. "I'm heading out the door now. As soon as I grab a free cab, I'll be heading through the tailor shop's entrance. Hopefully you'll be right behind me, Napoleon. Illya out."

Having signed off, the incoming message via tiny speaker went silent. Prompting a suddenly wide awake Napoleon Solo to swiftly restructure the device so that it appeared to be an expensive ink pen again.

Pulling together a sharp ensemble', Napoleon quickly began getting dressed, underwear and outerwear, while noting the lump beneath his big bed's expensive comforter began to move.

"Why are you up? What's going on?" came the sleepy response from a beautiful blonde beneath said comforter, also sans pajamas or nightie of any sort. She propped herself up on her elbows, while looking past disheveled hair with eyes smudged slightly by the mascara she had been wearing to perfection a handful of hours earlier.

"Sorry, my dear," began Napoleon in his patented tone of sensuality that had gotten the younger-by-fifteen years lovely to go back to the up-scale apartment of this man with graying hair and deeply set character lines about forehead and eyes. "I've, uh, got a business appointment I just remembered. Make yourself at home while I'm gone, and let yourself out when you're ready. Good-bye."

After stealing a passionate kiss from the naked-beneath-the-comforter young lady, clearly in her early-to-mid twenties, the fully dressed, and dapper, Napoleon Solo swept out of the bedroom and, moments later, out the apartment's door.

"Good-bye?" came the after-the-fact mumbling consideration of the twenty-something woman, still propped up on her elbows on one side of the large bed. "We'll see about that."

While Napoleon was downstairs, as fast as the elevator would take him, flagging down a taxi, the young woman, with whom he had spent the night in the heated throes of passionate love-making, plopped back down on the bed and pulled the soft comforter over her head.

After she grabbed a couple of more hours of sweet sleep, she, too, would get dressed and go downstairs to hail a cab. But, in the meantime...

Minutes later, having taken two entirely different taxis to the address of the faux tailor shop, Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo walked toward one another from opposite ends of the self-same sidewalk.

Napoleon was straigtening the knot of his tie, as well as allowing his hands to smooth out any temporary wrinkles, from sitting in the back of a cab, from his suits coat.

Illya, already looking dapper, in his own right, in his mod outfit of the times, which sported a dark-colored turtle-neck with a lighter-colored coat and slacks, was smirking at the look on Napoleon's face, that spoke volumes on what he had done the night before.

"I take it," began Illya, as the two reached one another's side in order to walk down the short steps before the tailor shop entrance, with a friendly note of sarcasm to his tone, "you had a good night with some lady whom you do not even remember by name, my friend."

"Don't be ridiculous," was Napoleon's prompt, and a little pompous, reply, even as they reached the door, which Napoleon opened to allow the seemingly ageless darling of the hipsters of the 1960s free entry, "her name was, uhm, I wanna say Nicki. It might have been Rikki. Oh, well, it doesn't matter, she'll be gone whenever I get back to the apartment. I doubt I'll even see her again. There's a lot of single women in New York, you know, Illya."

"Of that," Illya Kuryakin remarked in a tongue-in-cheek fashion, "I am keenly aware, Mr. Solo. But at least I take the time to actually remember a name of my latest conquest."

"Is that so?" harrumphed Napoleon, just as the two pass by the old man, supposedly the tailor shop's owner and operator, causing him to pull down the press, and tap twice on its steam handle.

After which, Napoleon and Illya pass through a curtain that led into a rear changing room. Hooks perflectly aligned along the wall.

But it was only one particular hook to which the attentions of two men from U.N.C.L.E. were drawn.

And, after that lone hook was twisted in a predetermined manner by Illya Kuryakin's hand, the dense door-wall popped open and allowed two U.N.C.L.E. agents to enter, and commence their walk down a long corridor in order to stop at a reception desk.

Thereupon, after the aging-yet-still sexy Napoleon Solo flirted with the receptionist handing out two specific upside-down triangle badges of yellow.

As usual, Illya pinned his own badge, with the number two emblazoned upon it, to his own coat lapel. Napoleon, on the other hand, leaned in to allow the receptionist, with whom he had been flirting, to pin his badge, with the number eleven upon it, to his coat's lapel.

"Thank you, beautiful," said Napoleon Solo to the lovely receptionist in control of the agents' badges, with a badge of her own showing the number twenty-seven emblazoned upon it.

"You're most welcome, Agent Solo," was her response, just as one hand secretly depressed an unseen button that opened the next dense door, through which two aged-yet-still-sexy agents to enter.

Soon they would both be in Alexander Waverly's office, the only person with an upside-down yellow badge emblazoned with a number one, and would discover the reason for being summoned so early in the day.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"...the latest diabolical plans of THRUSH"

"Be seated, gentlemen," said the proper English voice of the Number One of U.N.C.L.E., currently seated himself with the rear of his high-backed swivel chair hiding him from view.

"Yes, sir," said Napoleon Solo, as he seated himself in one of several ultra-modern chairs situated about a large, circular polished metal table.

"Certainly, sir," was Illya Kuryakin's equally polite response, as he, too, took a seat to one side of Napoleon at the large, circular polished metal table.

A moment later, Alexander Waverly spun around in his high-backed chair to face the two U.N.C.L.E. agents, with two folders, emblazoned with the U.N.C.L.E. logo and name, held in his somewhat aged, but not a great deal more than Napoleon's or Illya's, hands.

"Intel has just come out with the latest diabolical plans of T.H.R.U.S.H. to be used against our nation's capitol," pronounced Mr. Waverly in regards to the **T**echnological **H**ierarchy for the **R**emoval of **U**ndesirables and the **S**ubjugation of **H**umanity, even as he lay down the two identical U.N.C.L.E. folders upon the lazy susan top of the circular metal table.

With a gentle spin, the lazy susan top turned until both folders lay between the two seated, and seasoned, U.N.C.L.E. agents. At which point, both picked up one of the folders in order to open it and flip through the print-outs in regards to the dire straits indicated in voice and facial expression by Alexander Waverly. Number One in the entire New York branch of U.N.C.L.E.

"It has come to our attention," explained Mr. Waverly, even as such was readily understood by the two agents as they read it in the print-out pages, in identical U.N.C.L.E. folders, currently held by their respective hands, "that T.H.R.U.S.H. has obtained a few pounds of radioactive material. Material which they intend upon using in a conventional bomb to be planted somewhere in Washington, D.C. Once planted, and once the T.H.R.U.S.H. personnel are out of the capitol, conventional explosives will be detonated by remote control to subsequently spread the radioactive material upon the air currents and winds of Washington, D.C. What is required of you two is to locate not only the 'dirty bomb', but the T.H.R.U.S.H. agents responsible. Alive, if possible. Dead, if necessary. Understood?"

"Understood, sir," replied Illya and Napoleon, almost in unison, while still purusing the data on the print-outs held in the U.N.C.L.E. folders currently still in their hands.

"Good," said Alexander Waverly, as he leaned back in his chair, relaxing for the first time since the two U.N.C.L.E. agents walked into his office. "The private U.N.C.L.E. jet will be ready and waiting for you two to arrive at LaGuardia Airport. Whereupon you will leave immediately for Dulles International Airport in Washington, D.C., before picking up a car that will be waiting for you in order to attempt to locate, and stop, the planting of the 'dirty bomb' there. Good luck, gentlemen."

Taking the U.N.C.L.E. folders with them, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin left the office of Alexander Waverly, in order to stop by munitions in order to pick up their weapons, and all the additional pieces needed to turn a pistol into a rifle.

Such was Napoleon's favorite stop, just before leaving U.N.C.L.E. headquarters for a mission anywhere in the world. Illya would be just as satisfied, and effective, utilizing the hand-to-hand fighting techniques, of which he was an expert, that even his graying-haired friend and fellow agent could not claim to be as efficiently taught.

Stepping into the munitions area, located just off the corridor leading out of the super-secret U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, both Napoleon and Illya were met with the sweet scent of recently fired pistols and pistols-turned-rifles by the agent-in-charge, Roland Delbert. His upside-down triangle badge brandishing the number forty-seven.

"Ah, good morning, agents," said a smiling Roland upon seeing two such distinguished U.N.C.L.E. operatives stepping into his domain at the start of yet another anti-T.H.R.U.S.H. assignment. "I suppose you two are about to embark on another mission, and need your standard P-38s, as well as accessories, to fill your currently empty shoulder holsters."

"Precisely, Mr. Delbert," responded, a bit more affluently than necessary, Illya Kuryakin.

"You guessed right, Roland," came, a split second after Illya, the much more friendly faced, and voiced, response from Napoleon's equally smiling face. "I suppose we'll be equipped with both lethal and non-lethal ammunition?"

"Exactly so, Napoleon," Roland replied, still smiling in the way one would who loved their work. In fact you'll be getting an equal amount of each in clips that will fit perfectly in your coats' hidden inner pockets. Just as you will carry the three pieces needed to turn pistols into rifles. Here..."

First, Roland handed over the two augmented P-38s, one to Napoleon and one to Illya, with their slotted flash suppressors on substantially shortened barrels. Taking them, both agents slipped them into the soft leather of their hidden by coats' shoulder holsters.

Then, came the attachable accessories: slender metal stocks, to be secured to the butt of the pistols; equally slender barrel, to be equally secured over the flash suppressor shortened barrel of the P-38s; lastly came the high-powered sniper scopes that would be quickly attached to the top side of the P-38 pistols, whereupon it would not interfere with the slide that would recoil back after each and every shot.

Lastly, came the various bullet clips, both short and long, whereas half of them would contain 9 millimeter bullets, and the other half would use 9 millimeter-like knock-out darts.

All of which were securely placed into secret inner pockets on either side of the coats worn by Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin.

"Thank you, Mr. Delbert," was Illya's formal parting remark, as he turned to exit the munitions area and proceed toward the tailor shop secret door.

"Thanks, Roland," came Napoleon's friendly parting remark, as he also turned to exit the munitions area and proceed toward the tailor shop secret door.

As they walked down said corridor, whilst several shoulder holster-wearing U.N.C.L.E. agents with an array of numbers on their upside-down triangle badges passed through to go in and out of the doors on either side, the deep friendship these two held for one another came to the forefront.

"Well, Illya, now that we're about to head out on another 'adventure', how's about you lowering your emotive walls for a bit."

"If I lowered them, Napoleon, I still would seem significantly more professional than you are capable."

"Ouch," enunciated, as if it were a two-syllable word, Napoleon Solo, with a half-smirk on his handsome, even though slightly aged, face. "That barb was almost as deadly as the bullets in our guns, Illya, old man."

Casting a side-glance toward his friend and co-agent, Illya Kuryakin permitted himself the luxury of half-smirking himself, before comically replying, "Though I may be as 'old' as you, my friend, I assure you that I still look more akin to the Sixties than you. Older man."

Napoleon chuckled, as Illya smiled, albeit slightly and swiftly, as the two reached the end of the corridor, and Napoleon twisted the inner control knob that would allow said door-wall to open inward, and permit their departure from the U.N.C.L.E. headquarters situated in New York City.

The two would, after leaving the faux tailor shop, ascend the short stairs, hail a cab, and proceed to LaGuardia Airport to begin their newest mission in a past they had both already lived prior to returning, from forty-plus years into the future, to once again be vital agents for **U**nited **N**etwork **C**ommand for **L**aw and **E**nforcement.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"...in one terrorist action"

While Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin were winging it from LaGuardia to Dulles, the private plane carrying the T.H.R.U.S.H. operative, and his dirty bomb, was also en route to Washington, D.C.

Uder Hoffmann was not only a top operative for the **T**echnological **H**ierarchy for the **R**emoval of **U**ndesirables and the **S**ubjugation of **H**umanity. He was as fierce a combatant as any the two top U.N.C.L.E. agents had ever fought. This coupled with the fact two jumpsuit-wearing T.H.R.U.S.H. goons, with their trademark rifles, sporting sniper scopes that made use of a new technology involving a large circular addition that made it possible to see in absolute darkness, were also on board made the task set forth by Alexander Waverly even tougher.

Uder was well-dressed in a suit and tie as much high fashion for men as that which was worn by both Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin. And the cigarettes he smoked were of an Egyptian variety that costs twice as much as the regular variety that once was smoked by Napoleon. Of course that was before he gave up smoking in the early twenty-first century, before being sent back in time, alongside Illya Kuryakin, who'd never smoked at all, to take on T.H.R.U.S.H., and other adversaries of America and its free-world neighbors, as aged-yet-ageless agents of the **U**nited **N**etwork **C**ommand for **L**aw and **E**nforcement.

As Uder puffed on his Egyptian cigerette, bluish smoke swirled its way about his head, and his expensively coiffed hair, which was as black as pitch, an insistent beeping came from his stylish suit coat's inner pocket.

Holding the cigarette in his mouth, Uder retrieved the beeping item from said inner coat pocket. It was smaller than his cigarette pack, and as thin as cellular phones of the future would wind up being. After turning a switch upon its gleaming metal face, Uder lifted it toward his mouth in a fashion seen whenever someone uses a two-way radio's microphone.

"Uder here, sir," he said smoothly and without any amount of emotion. Almost like a robot answering his master's hail. His Egyptian cigarette once again twixt thumb and forefinger.

"You should be touching down soon at Dulles International," the nondescript voice stated succinctly over the tiny speaker built in below the microphone part of the smallish communications device. "You should be made aware of the fact that T.H.R.U.S.H. Intel has uncovered the soon-to-arrive U.N.C.L.E. agents."

"Do not worry, sir," Uder Hoffmann stated with more confidence than even Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin could muster between them. "I shall allow our uniformed minions to handle two U.N.C.L.E. agents. Meanwhile, I shall plant the bomb where it will not be found...before it is too late."

"See that you do, Uder," snarled the voice coming over the communications device's tiny speaker, with more than a little implied threat should Uder fail in his deadly mission. "You know the penalty should you fail."

Uder stiffened in his seat, plush and comfortable that it was, and took a long, thoughtful drag upon his cigarette. Then, as the smoke spilled forth from pursed lips, he finally replied after what seemed an eternity of silence.

"Yes...I do. Uder Hoffmann signing off."

Switching off the smallish device, and holding the cigarette twixt his lips again, Uder slipped the communications object back in the inner coat pocket once again. Then he finished his cigarette and snuffed out what little remained into the built-into-the-arm-of-his-seat ashtray.

Then, as a pensive expression claimed his handsome facial features, Uder Hoffmann took another expensive Egyptian cigarette out of the pack, inserted it between his lips, and used an expensive silver lighter to flame up the tip. Dragging long and hard upon it, before allowing a copious amount of smoke to roll out and up around his head again.

If there was one thing Uder liked better than a good smoke, it was setting up explosives in public settings. And the explosive he would be setting up in D.C. would be his greatest. Not in terms of destruction, but in terms of killing as many innocent people via radiactive material as could be readily imagined.

With the right wind and general air currents in and around Washington, D.C., this one explosive device should claim not only innocent citizens, going about their daily lives, but the President of the United States as well.

Not to mention the President's entire Cabinet, Staff, and Congress...effectively wiping out, in one terrorist action, the political heart and soul of the United States of America.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"...the plan to kill"

Dulles International Airport saw the landing of two private planes. One belonging to U.N.C.L.E. The other belonging to T.H.R.U.S.H.

Opening the door on the U.N.C.L.E. plane, two suave, in any century, agents stepped out and down the portable stairs. Illya Kuryakin first, followed by Napoleon Solo.

"So how are we supposed to locate this guy again?" Napoleon asked with a puzzled expression.

"Easy," replied Illya, as cool and collected as always. "We set our communication pens to a half-turned setting and listen to the static. When the radioactive material that comes with this bomb is within a half-mile, the static starts to click on and off. The closer we get, the faster the clicks."

"Then we just take the guy out," said Napoleon with a hint of playful sarcasm to his tone. "And fly back to New York for some celebratory drinks, before reporting in with Mr. Waverly."

"I suppose that could be one way to wind up a successful mission, Napoleon."

Having said that, Illya, followed closely by Napoleon, took out his expensive pen and, with practiced hand movements so smooth as to go virtually unnoticed, turns it into a slender communications device.

Then Illya, again followed closely by Napoleon, gives the device's clip a half-turn so as to set up static. Then both U.N.C.L.E. agents slipped the transformed communications pen into the breast pocket of their expensively tailored suit coats.

Almost immediately, even as they were walking toward the car, a dark-colored sedan that didn't stand out in the least, that was awaiting their arrival at Dulles, their respective communication pens began to click. Not too rapidly, yet not too slowly.

"Whoever it is," Napoleon said, stating the obvious, "must still be somewhere in or around this airport."

"He would've had to come by private plane, in order to bypass having to go through airport security, just as we do so as to not have our weapons and attachments exposed," openly contemplated Illya Kuryakin, even as he began driving the car in a slow arc through the area adjacent to the landing tarmac. "He also would've had a car waiting for him, so he could drive somewhere in D.C. in order to plant the dirty bomb, before heading back to his private plane in order to leave the area before detonating the explosive and sending deadly radiation out over much of the capitol city."

"Think he's got T.H.R.U.S.H. thugs with him?" asked, seriously for once, Napoleon Solo of his friend and co-agent.

"I would say 'yes'," stoically and certainly responded Illya. "At least two. They would be able to stake out any given region of Washington, D.C., while the person charged with planting and priming the dirty bomb could do so without being stopped by a pair of U.N.C.L.E. agents like us."

The clicking got faster one minute, as the car's arc continued in one half of the airport's exterior, then got slower the next as the car's arc changed.

This meant that the two U.N.C.L.E. agents would get close, only to have the individual with the bomb's car swinging away from the car carrying the agents from New York.

It also meant that Uder Hoffmann, and the two armed thugs wearing T.H.R.U.S.H. jumpsuits with the thrush bird patch on one shoulder, was steadily exiting the airport area in order to head further in, whereupon the explosive-surrounded radioactive material would be secreted.

To await a signal that would detonate the explosive, and send forth Death on the Wind.

Although Uder had no idea he was being tailed, albeit by as much as a half-mile away, by U.N.C.L.E. operatives, he knew he held all the proverbial cards since he knew exactly where he was going to stash the dirty bomb. And since he had two goons with T.H.R.U.S.H. rifles riding shotgun, so to speak.

And this was combined with the fact that Uder, although not a suicidal individual, planned on immediately detonating the dirty bomb, thus killing himself and his two T.H.R.U.S.H. thugs in the process, and setting into action the plan to kill as many people as possible, including the Congress, the Cabinet, and the President of the United States...

Lyndon Baines Johnson.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

"Now how do we catch this guy?"

The van in which Uder, driving, and the two T.H.R.U.S.H. thugs rode, along with the dirty bomb, careened out onto a highway leading away from Dulles. The sole goal of which was to lose the quite obvious tail in the form of a dark-colored sedan, also now careening out onto the highway.

"I don't think there's any doubt now, Illya," Napoleon Solo stated quite succinctly, as Illya Kuryakin handled the wheel well enough to keep them on target. All the while, the half-set communication pens, in their respective breast pockets, were clicking wildly. Letting them know, even before the wild driving of the van being driven by Uder Hoffmann made it a certainty, that this vehicle carried radioactive material surrounded by enough explosives to set it loose upon the winds.

"No, Napoleon," replyed Illya immediately after, his hands expertly handling the steering wheel, "no doubt whatsoever. Just as there's no doubt that the T.H.R.U.S.H. operative at the wheel knows what the hell he is doing."

"Get us closer," urged Napoleon, even as he slipped his P-38 from its soft leather shoulder holster in which it had been so securely nestled. "I'll try to flatten one or more tires. That'll bring him to a halt quick enough."

"I'll do my best, old friend."

Even as Illya Kuryakin attempted to do as he promised, Uder Hoffmann managed to make that promise exceedingly hard to fulfill, by purposely steering wildly in and around other cars on the highway.

"I believe we have our U.N.C.L.E. agents," he pronounced to the two jumpsuit-wearing, T.H.R.U.S.H. rifle toting goons who'd been sent with him on this mission of Death for the express purpose of offering offensive acts against agents of U.N.C.L.E. "Be so good as to show them what happens whenever opposition to a T.H.R.U.S.H. sanctioned act is encountered."

Without a word, both thugs smashed out the rear doors windows, with the business ends of their rifles, in order to take aim via night-vision capable scopes in order to open fire upon the rapidly closing sedan.

Of course, the careening still be carried out by Uder, combined with the matched careening counter-carried out by Illya, made taking an exact aim upon the U.N.C.L.E. agents all but impossible. Still, there were other points of interest upon which to take aim. Points of interest that could accomplish the same thing, even though the two agents inside the sedan would not be killed by directly-fired bullets.

"Look out!"

No sooner shouted by Napoleon, than Illya quickly spun the steering wheel in the opposite direction, causing the tires to squeal, and the rear of the car began to fish-tail. The bullets fired by the T.H.R.U.S.H. thugs impacted with the side of the sedan's rear doors. Easily burrowing through one side and exiting out the other side.

"Don't lose them, Illya!"

"Just keep your aim on the tires, Napoleon!"

"That's easier said than done, my friend," mummured Napoleon Solo, as he again brought his P-38 to bear upon the rear tires of the swerving van.

"Kill them, dammit!"

No sooner shouted by Uder Hoffmann, than the two jumpsuited operatives of T.H.R.U.S.H. attempted to reacquire the two well-dressed men in the sedan.

This time their bullets found very useful homes in the radiator of the dark-colored sedan, causing steam and hot liquid to spew forth.

Bringing the car to an abrupt halt on the semi-busy highway leading away from Dulles. Bringing two U.N.C.L.E. agents to a stop, whilst in pursuit of the fleeing, careening van carrying a very dirty bomb as its payload.

"Dammit!" shouted Napoleon out of intense frustration over having not succeeded in stopping, with his P-38, the as-yet-unknown agent of T.H.R.U.S.H. and, with him, the plans to unleash lingering hell over Washington, D.D.

But it would be Illya who, having pulled his own P-38 from his own shoulder holster at the same time as the sedan went skidding sideways, fully letting him take aim out his own quickly rolled-down window...

_Pft-pow! Pft-pow!_

Two hastily aimed shots succeeded in putting two 9-millimeter bullets through the foreheads of two armed-with-T.H.R.U.S.H.-sniper rifle toting thugs...

Allowing two suddenly lifeless bodies to drop out the back, as the doors flew open in response to the twin killing, combined with the suddeness of a swerving, careening van.

Causing, in turn, several cars skidding to stops so as not to run over the two jumpsuit-wearing killers.

"Good shooting, Illya, old friend," begrudgingly grumbled Napoleon, even as the two of them sprang forth from their "dead" sedan. "Now how do we catch this guy?"

"Good question, Napoleon. Very good question."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

"…some much needed down-time"

"Damned U.N.C.L.E. agents," snarled, to himself, Uder Hoffmann, even as he sped away, still quickly careening in and around the rest of the traffic. His anger directed toward the fact that Illya Kuryakin had killed the two T.H.R.U.S.H. thugs that had come along to help ensure his successful planting, for subsequent remote detonation, the particularly dirty bomb put into his expert custody.

He knew he would have to work a little harder at not getting caught or stopped by anyone in authority of law enforcement. Whether they be Secret Service, or simply uniformed officers patrolling in and around the White House and the Congressional Building. He also knew that if anyone, working on behalf of T.H.R.U.S.H., had the where-with-all to pull this off, it would most certainly be him.

As to the two U.N.C.L.E. agents sent to stop him...

"We can't let him get away, Illya," Napoleon Solo said, stating the obvious, as the two of them stood outside their now thoroughly "dead" sedan, situated on the side of the semi-crowded, with cars, the highway leading away from Dulles International Airport.

"And we won't, Napoleon," replied Illya, even as he stepped in the path of oncoming traffic, P-38 pistol in hand, and fired once through the windshield of a car heading straight for him. Its startled driver slammed on the breaks, just as Illya stepped to the driver's side with gun still in hand and, now, aimed directly at the man seated behind the wheel. "Sorry to do this, sir, but we are in need of your automobile. I'm afraid you have no choice in the matter, but to get out."

"Okay, okay," loudly stammered the man behind the wheel. "Don't shoot, don't shoot."

His hands held up beside each side of his head in the universal symbol for surrender, the man waited until Illya opened the driver's door, even as Napoleon was climbing in on the other side, before getting out the instant the still blonde operative of U.N.C.L.E. opened said driver's door. Gun still aimed at the man holding his hands up in surrender.

After climbing in behind the wheel, and solidly shutting the driver's door, even with his P-38 still in hand, Illya stated quite emphatically, "Don't worry, the car shall be returned to you after we've finished our mission."

"Returned to me?" puzzled the man, still holding his hands in a surrender fashion. "How will you do that? And what 'mission'?"

"From the address on your registration," chimed in Napoleon, even as he held up what he had pulled from the glove compartment.

"In the meantime," Illya said immediately after Napoleon, several denomination of bills being handed out the driver's side window, "grab a cab back to your apartment house. I'm sure your employer will understand when you tell him you were car-jacked by armed assailants on the highway."

"Car-jacked?" pondered the man, having never heard such a phrase before, but accepting more than enough cash to, indeed, hire a cab, of which there were several in the immediate vicinity of Dulles, to take him home. He could only hope that he might be compensated for the bullet hole in the middle of his windshield, as well.

Stomping on the gas pedal, the car was sent speeding away, swerving in and around other traffic, in a manner meant to maintain a half-mile, at least, distance from the speeding van carrying the dirty bomb. That way the clicking sound from their fully-transformed communicator pens, due to the radioactive material itself, would still lead these two agents of U.N.C.L.E. directly toward wherever Uder was inevitably heading.

Speaking of whom...

Having sped his way through traffic, keeping at least a half-mile distance from his current traveling location and that of the U.N.C.L.E. agents, who, unbeknownst to Uder, were attempting to maintain said half-mile distance of the radioactive material making up the heart of this particular explosive device, Uder Hoffmann made his way off U.S. Route 50, approaching from the East, in order to park the van.

Pulling into the area along Ohio Drive, SW, between the Lincoln and Thomas Jefferson Memorials, Uder Hoffmann would arm the explosive device, surrounding the radioactive material, before leaving seemingly innocent van just where it was, while Uder would hail a cab that would take him back to Dulles wherein he would fly away on the T.H.R.U.S.H. operated plane.

Whereupon he would wing it back to New York City and the secret East Coast headquarters for T.H.R.U.S.H., secure in the knowledge that the remote detonation, once in the air, would send the United States government into a sudden tailspin. Thanks to the deaths of not only President Johnson, his Cabinet, and Congress, but of thousands more living and working within the Washington, D.C. area.

"Halt!"

The single one-syllable command did, indeed, caused the slowly leaving-the-parking lot T.H.R.U.S.H. operative to stop in his tracks.

"Put your hands up!" came another loud command, but this one by a different voice than the one that shouted for him to halt barely a single second or two before.

Having been trained not to simply surrender, without a fight, by those responsible for training such T.H.R.U.S.H. operatives, Uder Hoffmann slowly turned toward those two voices, hands seemingly in surrender position, before eyeing those responsible for the five words of simplistic-yet-forceful commands.

He was only slightly surprised to see that those attempting to capture him, without a fight, were the same two U.N.C.L.E. agents that were earlier giving chase on the highway leaving Dulles International Airport.

Two agents who had taken the time to assemble the necessary pieces, secreted away in hidden inner pockets of their expensively stylish coats, to nakedly turn their P-38 pistols into rifles, with extra long bullet clips in place of the shorter ones used earlier in pistol fashion.

"I must say," Uder said with a smirk, "it is a bit of a surprise to see you two, after leaving you helplessly sitting on the side of the highway several miles from here. Congratulations. I am seldom so surprised. However..."

With a fast flurry of hand and feet movements, Uder pulled forth, from his own leather shoulder holster, only not as soft as those worn by Illya and Napoleon, a Luger, which he quickly fired, three times, in the direction of the two U.N.C.L.E. agents.

And, at the self-same time, moving to take cover behind a parked car through which 9-millimeter bullets could not fully penetrate.

Then again, his Luger's 9-millimeter ammunition had not the penetrating power to take care of the two U.N.C.L.E. agents, already crouching behind two other parked cars.

A veritable hail of bullets were fired from U.N.C.L.E. pistol-rifles, in between ducking behind respective parked cars whenever return fire was received from a T.H.R.U.S.H. Luger.

Realizing that the detonator carried by Uder Hoffmann, someone whom was so committed to the detonation of a dirty bomb that he would do so whilst exposing himself to the radioactive material released...

"Give me some cover fire," Illya Kuryakin requested of Napoleon Solo, even as both were ducking down to avoid a volley of Luger-fired 9-millimeter bullets, as said bullets pinged loudly against the opposite side of two parked cars.

Napoleon nodded, as Illya, still ducking behind the cars, made his way around them, even as Napoleon popped up and unleashed several rapidly-fired bullets back in the direction of the equally hidden Uder.

Uder, having ejected a spent clip in order to slap a full one in its place, half-stood, behind the bullet-riddled rear of the car providing him with cover, in order to fire back several well-aimed bullets...

Which made even more holes in the rear of one parked car, that had provided cover for a no-longer-there Illya Kuryakin, and the front of the one providing cover for Napoleon Solo.

As this give-and-take gun battle was occurring in very real time, Illya had made his way around other stationary cars to end up on the same side as Uder...

"Surrender or die!"

Not being one to give up so easily, Uder quickly took haphazard aim in Illya's direction, but before he could open fire, in a manner that would most definitely seriously injure, or even kill, the U.N.C.L.E. agent Number Two, Section Two...

_Pft! Pft!_

Two bullets, unleashed through the silencer-equipped, as was Napoleon's, cylindrical metal rifle barrel, and found deadly homes in both heart and head of a now dead Uder Hoffmann.

Standing, pistol-rifle still at the ready, Illya hurriedly made his way to the unmoving, bleeding out body. Kicking away the loosely held Luger via a shiney shoe made of the finest Italian leather.

"Clear."

Now it was Napoleon's turn to move in, his own pistol-rifle also heald at the ready, to trot over, even as Illya fished out the portable, handheld remote detonator from a coat pocket. Switching it off with his thumb.

Now the two U.N.C.L.E. agents breathed easier, as Napoleon Solo pulled his communicator pen from his front pocket, twisted the clip all the way open, before speaking into its microphone...

"Open Channel D, open Channel D."

"Report, Mr. Solo."

It was only slightly surprising to Napoleon that Alexander Waverly's voice would be the one to answer. Slightly, because, whenever his top two agents were on a very much life-and-death, to important political figures, missions, he often hung around the communications room awaiting a report. Preferrably a positive one.

"We've killed the T.H.R.U.S.H. agents, and have secured the device. No little 'Dirty Birdies' are going to go off in D.C., sir. Napoleon Solo out."

Having converted their communication devices back into innocuous ink pens, placed back into the visible inside pockets of their suits, and transformed two pistol-rifles back into holster-friend pistols, with the three accessories needed for such a transformation back into their secret inside pockets...

Two U.N.C.L.E. agents returned a stolen-at-gunpoint car to its rightful owner, then grabbed a cab back to Dulles so as to take their U.N.C.L.E. supplied airplane back to New York's LaGuardia Airport.

After reporting in and being debriefed, the two would head back to their respective apartments for some much needed down-time.

But, in Napoleon Solo's case, there would be a slight surprise awaiting him...

"Well, hello, lover," said the sultry voice belonging to the same blonde Napoleon had left behind nearly a whole day before. Standing in his bedroom's doorway, wearing nothing but one of his expensive white shirts.

"Well, hello," he said in half-smiling response, his eyes taking her in from toe-to-head. A very approving visual at that. "Guess the two of us have some 'making up' to do. Especially seeing as how I had to leave you behind for my job several long hours ago."

"Yes," she said sexily, while walking out to take him by the tie in order to lead him toward said bedroom. "Now I'm going to make sure you finish what we started. Any objections?"

"Not from me," Napoleon Solo said as sexily as she had done. "Lead on."

THE END


End file.
